+ "The Plight of Women"

10 September, Faisalabad
from Marcela Gaviria

"Man Poisons Wife to Death" ... "Two Women Raped, Killed in Separate Incidents" ... "Girl Gang Raped in Bahawalpur" ... "Pregnant Woman Killed by Rivals in Muridke" ... "Girl Disgraced at Basti Hassanabad" ... "Woman Abducted in Pakpatan."

These are a few of the headlines buried in just one day's edition of The News, a local English-language newspaper.

I learn that Salma was raped while working in the cotton fields and was killed with a sickle by the man who wished to conceal his crime. I read that Zaka Ulla's eight-month marriage ended (in death) after her husband forced her to drink rat poison. I am horrified to learn that Zahida Parveen was gang raped by a group of 10 men on some small road and has now been forced to leave her hometown and her family because she has disgraced them.

There is a disconnect between what I am told and what I read. I am told that women are sacred -- revered as precious objects -- that must be kept away from public sight to preserve their honor and dignity. And yet, day after day, there is the barrage of 3x3-inch stories that tell tales of invisible girls suffering unspeakable crimes.

I have not been able to speak to any women on this trip. Sometimes I'll see a beautiful henna-died hand slip through the door and pass a tray full of tea to a man on the receiving end. Sometimes I'll hear the chatter and banter of women sitting in the back room. I wonder how they pass their days and if they ever see the sunlight.

I am told that you can tell a lot about a woman, even if she is covered by a burka. You will know if she is married or single by the way she walks. You will know if she is beautiful or ugly by the way she holds her shoulders. You will know if she is wealthy or poor by the way she smells or by the quality of her shoes.

One of the few times I've seen women up close was at the High Tea Hungama event at the Serena Hotel: Earl Grey and scones, to the high-pitched tune of Celine Dion's theme from Titanic and the Macarena in Urdu.

Groups of wealthy women come in the afternoons to catch up and get out of the house. They serve themselves piles of "sweets" in little plates and spend their time looking at other women sitting at other tables. When someone walks into the room, everybody's head turns to check out what the lady is wearing and who she is with. Sometimes a young bride will come with her husband. She is invariably holding Jasmine flowers in one hand. All the teenage girls seem enraptured. I imagine they wonder when their time will come to marry.

The cultural, social, and gender gap is too large to comprehend.

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